


Dreams of You

by Krasimer



Series: Dreams of You 'Verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Falling In Love, I will always find you, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will always find each other, even if they can't find their way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams of mountains

It's a bit like a dream, he decides. He'll close his eyes and see the mountains he has dreamt of for years, and when he opens them again, the face that he could swear he has seen before will go away. 

But when he opens his eyes again, the man with the thick beard and dark eyes still isn't gone. Is still sitting there across the airport lounge from him. They appear to be going to the same place, but he isn't quite sure.

What's worse is that the man appears to be looking directly at him. He fidgets in his seat, playing with the cuff of the shirt he's wearing.

The man is built a bit like a bear in a suit, but it looks good on him. All smooth lines of fabric and sharp angles, he looks almost like a tailor used him as a mannequin. Nothing bunches un-flatteringly, and when he turns his head to look at the two men who have just come up to him, his pose remains poised. One leg crossed over the other at the knee, polished black leather shoes tapping in place, one in the air and the other on the floor.

He bites back a groan when he catches sight of the chain at the man's neck. It's just barely showing over the collar of his suit and shirt and the graceful knot of his tie. But it is there, and he hisses under his breath as his mind conjures up an image of the man, stripped naked, nothing but the chain and whatever is on the end of it covering any part of him besides where his long hair trails down his back. 

As if sensing what he's thinking, the man looks over at him again, head tilted. A smirk graces the oddly full lips. 

Anyone who could mistake this man for a woman had to be blind, dumb, or both. Nothing in the shape of him could be mistaken for a female, not a part of him is delicate or soft. His hair is long, his lips are full, but he is no girl.

The two men are still talking to him, and he supposes that at least one of them must be related to him. 

Unable to stand it any longer, he looks at his feet, closes his eyes, and thinks of the mountains he has always dreamed of.

 

xXxXx

 

The man across the lounge is in no way being subtle with his staring.

For a moment, he thinks it might be because of the hair, and he meets his gaze, feeling the chain of his necklace rising up out of his collar with the movement of his neck. The last person who had dared mock him for being a business man with long hair had ended up with a sprained wrist and a lecture about not taking appearances for granted.

It's only when the man flushes red, eyes focusing on the chain, that he understands. 

His nephews are still telling him about their trip there, why they're late. If their flight hadn't been delayed, then they would have been left behind.

He smiles at the man, then turns to both of his nephews, still keeping an eye on the shorter male across the way.

The scent of smoke and metal mixed with earth enters his nose, and he closes his eyes. Every time he travels anywhere, he is presented with what he tended to think of as a hallucination of his senses. Having been to doctors, none of whom could tell him what it was, he had stopped trying to figure it out.

It wasn't killing him, and it wasn't disrupting his life.

Sometimes it lingered around his nephews, and he would hug them and talk to them and try to figure things out. He opened his eyes slowly, glancing around. There wasn't a source of the smell, as usual.

(Something always was going wrong in their lives, and it was nice to know that they felt he could help them.)

But the scent was stronger this time, and as he looked towards the man, still flushed red, it grew stronger still. Like the sandy haired male in front of him was the one wafting it everywhere. 

(Iron and dirt, blood and dust, sweat and heat. It had always been like that.)

The man's hair was short, shorn almost to the skin at the base of his neck. Well groomed but still ragged curls draped over the tips of his ears and if he looked closely, he could see a slightly pointed tip. The man was short, but well built, he wasn't heavy, just a little stocky. 

( _'He'll fit against you'_ whispered part of his mind.)

An appreciative growl grew in the back of his throat against his conscious will. His oldest nephew paused in his comical retelling of the "Adventure to the airport!" as he was calling it. He exchanged a look with his brother, was about to speak. The intercom crackled to life before he could get out a single word.

Their flight was ready to load passengers.

He stood and sighed, the smell of metal and earth flooding his senses again.

(As it has always been.)


	2. Dreams of Ink and Blood

He takes a deep breath, rotating his wrist until he hears it pop.

It's been a long day.

He works at a library, and there had been a rush of people earlier, all high school students who needed to write reports. There had been a loud chatter as some of them had disregarded the rules on the signs posted all around them. They had started talking to their friends, their phones beeping in chaotic mass of whirrs and beeps.

He hated cell phones.

He didn't actually mind them if they were used in the right way, but other than that, when in the hands of the teenagers (who were all only a few years younger than him) it was insanity.

He much preferred books. 

Thick, crisp pages with almost jewel-like ink on them. They made him happier than any human in the world could. 

His older brothers didn't understand his need to be surrounded by books when he could have been anything he wanted to be. 

They really didn't understand that he just wanted to be a librarian, a researcher, and a writer. He didn't want some corporate job, and he definitely didn't want to be shoved in a suit and forced to work in a box.

He didn't want to live his life in a box and then be buried in one. It wasn't something he ever wanted.

So when he smells ink and blood, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. Something might be wrong with him, but he doesn't want to find out. 

The doors of the library are propped open, a warm breeze wafting through them. The air seems to make the scent stronger, and he breathes deeply through his nose, picking up the undertones of it. There's a hint of a metal to it, and some days he thinks it's  
just the scent of the blood overpowering the ink.

But when a man built like someone carved him out of stone walks into the library one day, he thinks that maybe he's wrong. 

His shoulders are wide enough that it seems at first like he won't fit through the door, and he almost squeaks in fear as the man looks him in the eyes and grumbles something about looking for a book.

And he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of ink and blood.

 

xXxXx

 

It had been a tough day at work, and someone had decided to get a little rowdy and try to start a fight in the lunch room of the prison that he worked at.

He was tired, he was sore, and all he really wanted to do was go home and beat the shit out of the punching bag hanging in his living room before collapsing into sleep.

And he had actually been on his way home, having taken a cab from work to the store near his apartment, when he had heard the voice that had always haunted his dreams. When he looked up, he spotted a young man, with vibrantly orange hair, just on the scale of natural still. There was enough red for it to be natural, anyways.

He had a short beard, and he was fairly small.

He looked sweet, and he was humming as he arranged books in a window display, the window itself open.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he listened to the younger man's voice. A string of warmth wormed itself through him, seeming to touch every inch of him.

So he had stopped, turned, and gone up the steps into the library. 

The doors were flung wide, letting in a soft breeze and some sunshine, and letting the voice out into the world. Part of him really just wanted to pull the voice close to himself, to take the person it was attached to and hold him to his chest and keep the world out because he needed to be protected.

Because he needed to stay safe.

There was an almost irrational panic at the thought of the one with the stunning voice getting hurt. 

When he caught up to the young man with the red hair and the soft voice, he uttered the first thing he could think of, and nearly smacked himself in the forehead for not bothering to think it through first.

The young man turned a fairly enticing pink color and smiled, asking him what kind of book he was looking for.

He shrugged and muttered something about tattoo designs, gesturing to the ones on his arms, making up his excuse as he went along.

Anything to keep the voice near to him.

And later on, when they've properly talked and dated and smiled and flirted, he'll make that soft sweet voice from his dreams _sing._


	3. Dreams of Song and Skin

Some days he thinks that this all seems a little too familiar.

He runs a hand through the mass of hair on his head, only slightly tamed by being pulled back into braids that run behind his ears, wincing when it catches on one of the piercings there.

His older brother had always warned him about that.

With a sigh and a shrug, he leans forward over the table in the cafe, closing his eyes for half a moment while he allows the sun to soak into his skin. It's warm, the first few hopeful rays of bright light that don't seem sure it's Spring yet. Still cold enough for   
Winter, but starting to warm and switch over.

That's when he hears it.

Someone is humming, a familiar tune. If he were in a love ballad, or a storybook, it would have sounded like a flute, or something else soft and sweet.

It doesn't sound like that though.

It sounds like a bawdy bar song, like something that he had heard when he last went out drinking with his friends. Like a song that he might find the lyrics to in scraped out letters on a bathroom wall. It sounded heart-achingly familiar, and he opened his eyes, ignoring the brief sensory overload as the sun blinded him for half a second.

There was a man, with long dark hair pulled back into a braid down his spine.

He had a kind face, an easy smile, large dark eyes, and he was humming in between talking with the man behind the counter. 

Currently, he was stocking the shelves with various products, bending down gracefully to reach other the box at his feet. He had a mustache, and a short beard, and all that it did was cause another heart wrenching twist in his gut. 

The humming made him feel like he wanted to close his eyes again, just listening to the sound and allowing it to make everything better.

For a second, he could have sworn that the man smiled at him, and he finally closed his eyes to focus on listening.

 

xXxXx

 

The man in the corner makes him want to run his hands through his hair, tugging lightly at it until he purrs.

In his imagination, he can already feel the warmth from his skin, darkened slightly by the sun. It would feel rough, but only in a pleasing way, and if he were to lick the small patch behind his ear, it would feel cool against his tongue, but not too cool as to be strange.

His brother, working the counter of their cafe, rolls his eyes and raises a hand as if to reach out and nudge him forward.

Giving him a glare, he shakes his head, daring to look over at the man and smile. As if it were a nervous habit, he can feel the trickle of notes slipping from his throat. The tune he had felt almost scratching at his tongue this morning was familiar, and he had a mental image of an exasperated looking man, short and bare footed, looking on in horror as dishes were tossed about. 

Something about the man in front of him seems to fit into the image as well.

When his brother tells him that his shift is over, he hesitates for only a moment before he walks over to the man's table, clearing his throat quietly. He rests a hand on the back of an empty chair, close enough to the table to make it obvious, but far enough to be able to retreat if the answer is no.

The other man, with brown hair and a slightly hooked nose looks up and tilts his head, eyes flashing to his hand. 

He puts aside whatever he had been working on and gestured for him to continue, smiling. With a sigh of relief, he sat in the chair, curling his fingers under his chin, resting his head in the palm of his hand. 

And then they're talking and he doesn't know how it happened, but all of a sudden, they're hands are linked together and the other man is looking intently at them. Like they're precious, or they hold the secrets of the universe. All he really knows is that the warmth he imagined was nothing even close to the real thing. 

And then he's being asked out on a date.

From the counter, he hears his brother choke on the cheer he obviously wanted to let out at hearing those words. His cousin was showing some restraint, but he always had.

So he focuses in on his future date and tries not to think about why holding his hand feels so familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh geez...Is there any limit to how many AU universes an author is allowed to have? 
> 
> I haven't posted much online because previously I was only on FF.net, and the submitting process is hard and takes a lot of time, and I only get Wifi once or twice a week. Everything that you're getting here is brand new, and there's more of it because it is so much easier.


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